


While My Guitar Gently Weeps

by Cat_Moon



Series: Half Breed: Season Two [11]
Category: Moonlight (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 09:33:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2463482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat_Moon/pseuds/Cat_Moon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A study in the sensual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	While My Guitar Gently Weeps

**Author's Note:**

> This short story was done in response to a challenge issued on a fan board many moons ago, to write a sensual story without graphic sex.

  
I look at the world and I notice it's turning   
while my guitar gently weeps   
with every mistake we must surely be learning   
still my guitar gently weeps.   
I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping   
while my guitar gently weeps   
**\--1968 Harrisongs Ltd**

 

  
  
  
I watch his hands as he plays the guitar, fascinated by the nimble fingers. They handle the strings with the confidence of long practice. Hands that can make me sing now coax music out of the instrument in his arms. He’s had a lot of practice at that, too – nearly four hundred years worth.   
  
I asked him to play me some blues, and of course it’s a bluesy rock tune but that’s okay. It’s a part of him now, until I almost can’t listen to a rock and roll song without thinking of him.  
  
The last notes of the song fade and I reach over, placing my hand over his, stilling the echo until the room is again silent. The fingers turn, twine with mine. You probably think we’ve never held hands before. You’d be wrong.  
  
I’m feeling pleasantly mellow, drunk on moonshine and other things, more amorphous things. Everything seems muted, distant, as if I’m not really here but watching from some other place. There are two of me, and they both watch as those hands put the guitar aside. I invite them closer and they accept, find my body and move over the skin they know so well and can easily bring to life. Strong, sure, they give what I need, take what they want. These hands have loved, and they have killed. Played guitar and played me. All with the same accomplishment. Magic hands.  
  
My acute senses catalog every detail. Cloth rustling, being pushed aside, zipper loud by contrast. We haven’t spoken since he started playing for me, and I’m glad as I’m loathe to break this odd spell. What is there to say anyway? We can talk anytime. It may be a long time before we touch this way again.   
  
It used to be that I would go for years without this and never miss it; now that the possibility looms I find myself wanting more. Wanting it all the time. He would tell you I’m perverse that way.  
  
Hands play my flesh as expertly as they did the guitar, coaxing it to sing now. He might hate classical music, but we’ve got a full orchestra here. Touch is relentless, persistent, brooking no argument and taking no prisoners. The familiar smell of desire, his and mine, weighs heavy in the air. The sounds of lovemaking are the chorus to our private song. Taste explodes in my mouth, both sharp and sweet, rich and heady. Sight… those hands. I watch them on my body as closely as I did the guitar earlier. I’m fixated on them as they take me higher with every passing moment. The music swells as the maestro conducts this piece with intensity and command. My body obeys, riding the waves of arousal, higher with each upsurge. I want the song to be over; I want it to last forever. I want everything and nothing.   
  
I can’t see the fingers anymore, but I can feel them, they are all I can feel, my world are those hands on me, in me. I’m vibrating with the pleasure now, the chorus has repeated for the last time, building to a crescendo, louder, harder, faster, until that final moment when the world explodes…  
  
And then silence.  
  
My body is humming in the aftermath, sated and relaxed. A good piece of…music will do that to you. It was a good show, worth the price of admission and the kind a person might be smiling about for hours. I don’t want it to end yet though, so I contemplate the chance of encores and consider standing ovations. My lazy gaze falls on the guitar, abandoned to rest against the couch, and I feel sorry for it. It surely enjoys the hands as much as I.   
  
“Play me some more rock and roll.”  I’ll watch some more, while he makes love to his guitar and the minutes of eternity pass through the night and into a new day.  
  
I love those hands. I love the man.  
  
  
  
12/2/08


End file.
